Anatomy of a Hangover
by Donny's Boy
Summary: A CA story about sex, booze, and regrets. Oh, and about learning to love others ... and oneself. Set in adulthood. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

"Anatomy of a Hangover"

By Donny's Boy

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot of _Rugrats _and/or_ All Grown Up_, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Mature language, alcohol use, discussion of alcoholism, discussion and depictions of sexual situations.

**Chapter 1 **

On Sunday morning I wake up alone. My hand gropes along his side of the bed, but there's nothing there but cold empty sheets. While this is uncustomary, it is not surprising. I have been waiting for this morning for a long time, actually. If I am surprised by anything, it's that this is the first time that I've woken up alone.

Funny that I didn't even hear him sneak away, though. Then again, I do usually sleep like the dead. Hmm.

I roll over onto my side and stare at my bedroom window. The blinds are drawn, but long white shafts of light filter through. It must be sunny outside today. As it's early May, the temperature is probably quite nice too. I couldn't care less.

Sighing, I pull the covers up around my shoulders and shut my eyes. I think about last night, Saturday night. I'd been out at a party for a good portion of the evening. Susie had come along, and we were both young and fabulous and single. I danced a little, drank a little, laughed a little. A reasonably cute guy gave me his number. Susie almost punched me when she caught me throwing it away. At the time I slurred out that she was jealous, but I think that she was just worried about me. She thinks I need to start dating again. Besides, jealousy almost certainly couldn't have been what was at play, because good old Susie found a cute guy too, who followed us home like a lost puppy.

As soon as we got home, Susie disappeared behind closed doors with Puppy Guy, and I whipped out my cell phone. I called the guy who worries Susie and, as soon as he said "hello," I asked if he could come over, knowing he could and he would. While waiting for him to come over, I popped into the bathroom to freshen up my make-up and hair. I hated myself a little for caring, but I did. Then when he arrived, I poured us both a glass of wine before we headed to my own bedroom.

Friends with benefits. That's all we are—all we were, I should say. From the beginning, we both knew it wasn't anything permanent or serious. So why do I feel like shit? I blame the hangover.

---

Opening my eyes, I stare at my gray, cracked ceiling. It's symbolic, somehow. Symbolic of what, I'm not sure. Almost involuntarily my mind drifts back to the first time I slept with him. Ground zero, as it were. It had been an accident, really, that had happened after the wedding—Tommy and Lillian's wedding. I was a bride's maid; he was the best man. How trite. There was so much excess emotion, so much fatty food, so much free booze. I still remember how I'd just broken up with my most recent ex and thoroughly hated Tommy and Lil's guts for being so happy and in love.

I'd fought the temptation to drown my sorrows, though, and stuck to only a single glass of champagne. Not out of such misguided sense of familial duty, but because my mother threatened to disown me if I made a scene on Tommy's "big day." Ugh. The best man, however, had felt no such compunction—by the end of the reception, he was good and sloshy.

Earlier, after saying the obligatory "mazel tov" to the disgustingly happy couple, I'd retreated to a corner, looking bored, occasionally making nice with the stray relative who wandered over to chitchat. Then _he_ stumbled over. While true that we were older—I no longer the cheerleader, he no longer the geek, but both of us actual complex human beings—that didn't mean I wanted to talk to him. Quite the contrary. But being drunk made him bold. With a grin as wide as Texas, he asked me to dance.

I said no. His grin didn't even waver. He told me he'd already danced with Susie and Kimi and Lil, with Didi and Betty, with his mother and my mother, and even one slow-dance with Phil. I was the only one left, he explained, ever so cheerfully. When I told him I wanted to _stay_ left, he only laughed.

"Angie, it's a wedding! Be happy for once!"

I almost punched him, right then and there, and would have been entirely justified doing so. But before I had the chance, he suddenly grabbed my hands and leaned backwards, pulling me to my feet. As I saw my mother glancing nervously in my direction, I allowed him to lead me out to the dance floor. He ended up being a much better dancer than I would have thought he'd be, given his state of intoxication.

And that was how I got stuck taking him back to his hotel room. You'd think Kimi would have stepped up to do it, but you'd be wrong. She and Phil had been making eyes at each other all night. While of course I myself would gladly choose a guy over family, I had to admit to being surprised that Kimi had—because no way did she think her precious big brother was in safe hands. Still, my conscience got the better of me, and I let the fledgling lush lean on my shoulder as I led him to his room.

Once inside, he immediately collapsed onto his bed. I turned to leave. I was halfway out the door when he quietly called out my name, asking me to stay for a little bit.

I still don't know why I turned back. I guess I was just lonely and hurting. And he was there, and he was as warm and familiar and broken-in as my old Cynthia dolls.

I stepped into his bathroom, grabbed one of the complimentary plastic cups, and filled it with water. Taking it over to the bed, I sat down and ordered him to sit up. After a few false starts, he managed to prop himself upright.

"Drink this," I said and shoved the cup into his hands.

He gulped it down then clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, knocking off his glasses in the process. Startled, he glanced up at me, as though I'd had anything to do with his own ineptitude. I noticed for the first time that he had green eyes.

He wiped his hand across his face again. "It's really hot in here," he told me, glancing down at the beads of sweat on his forearm.

"No, it isn't. You're just drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," he slurred, grinning at me. Then he began fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt. For a second I recoiled at his presumptuousness before realizing that he was just trying to cool down.

Thoroughly annoyed, I watched him continue fumbling for a few moments before I finally pushed away his hands and began unbuttoning his shirt for him. Once unbuttoned, he tried shrugging it off. Again he failed miserably, so I helped him take it off too. My arms brushed against his chest, and I paused. He definitely seemed better built than I ever would have given him credit for.

I should have left the second that thought passed through my mind. But instead, I grabbed the bottom of his undershirt and pulled it up over his head. As I threw it on the floor, I saw that I'd been right—though indisputably wiry, he had solid lean muscles in his chest, his arms, his abs. To top it all off, his entire torso glistened with alcoholic perspiration.

Without stopping to think, I ran my fingers lightly along his stomach, and he closed his eyes and shuddered. Feeling him shudder at my touch sent a sudden, unexpected desire coursing through me.

I probably should have left. But I stayed.

It might have only been that and it might have ended up being completely forgotten, except for the next morning. Silently watching as he woke up and groaned in misery at his hangover, I lay as far from him as possible on the bed. Finally he rolled over and looked at me, and I waited for it. The regret. The realization. The accusations.

But he only smiled. Through what surely must have been one hell of a hangover, especially given that he looked like death warmed over, he actually _smiled_ at me. "Want some coffee?" he offered, his voice little more than a scratchy croak. "Because I could sure use some."

"Sure," I said. And I stayed.

---

That was almost two years ago, now.

As I lie in bed, I frown as I suddenly smell … coffee. Yes. That's definitely the smell of fresh coffee percolating. Well, thank goodness for small miracles. I can't remember having set the coffee pot's timer, but then again, I probably wouldn't remember. Domestic chores, I must say, hadn't been high on my priority list last night.

Or perhaps Susie had woken up early and started the coffee. She might have woken up early to start the coffee before heading out to church. Despite my slight depression, I smile. Now, I'm not one to judge—well, not about sex, at least—but I have to admit, it does amuse me to think that Susie might be getting ready for church services less than twenty-four hours after our night of debauchery. Perhaps I'll share my amusement with my beloved apartment-mate. After she comes back from church, that is.

If she is planning on going to church, though, she'll probably swing by my room and ask if I want to come with. I find myself desperately hoping she doesn't. First of all, I'm pissed off at myself. Second, I'm hung over. And third, I'm just not ready to face my sins … not today, maybe not ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

The second time I slept with him was after a party at his place. He'd invited all the old gang and, in fact, I almost didn't go. But Susie had wanted to and hadn't wanted to go alone, so off I went, like the good best friend I am.

This time, there was no mother and no threats of disownment to hold me back. So I drank hard, well into the late hours of the morning. Susie had bolted with a guy long ago, and if I hadn't already been drunk by then, I might have tried to get back at her somehow. Perhaps by constantly calling her phone to interfere with her hook-up or, if she'd brought the guy back to our place, by loudly banging around the apartment upon my return. As it was, given how good all the drinks had me feeling, I barely noticed when she left.

By the end, it was down to Tommy, Lil,, me, and _him_. Finally, Lil stumbled to her feet, and Tommy took her by the arm and steered her towards the door. Our host followed after them. I couldn't make out most of the conversation, but I did catch Tommy's assurances that he was okay to drive.

After shutting the door, he turned back to face me and grinned. "So, ready for a ride back to your place?"

I scowled at him, pretending to be offended. "What? You don't think I'm okay to drive?"

"Frankly? Not so much, no."

Laughing, I held out my empty martini glass. "Barkeep! A drink for the road!"

He walked over and gently took the glass from me, his fingers grazing mine. I suddenly remembered that Susie had left long ago and that I'd be coming home to either an empty apartment or an apartment I wished was empty.

He was so close, I could smell his cologne. It smelled spicy. I reached up, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and pulled him down on top of me. As I kissed him, I enjoyed the warmth of his slender body against mine. He tasted a little sweet, a little salty.

Breathing hard, he pushed off me. "Angelica." He gulped and closed his eyes. "We can't do this. You're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," I shot back, parroting what he'd told me himself once before. Then I laughed a little and wondered if he'd get the joke.

But he didn't. He just shook his head. "You're pretty drunk."

"But I wasn't the first time. _You_ were. Remember?" I grinned, feeling reasonably certain that I was about to get my way. "Does that mean I messed up? Back in the hotel, did I take advantage of you?"

His eyes went wide. "No! I mean … it's just … dammit, Angie … "

I pulled him back down and kissed him again. Almost immediately I felt his body respond, and I ran my hands down his back. He moaned a little, and I held him close against me. That night he was mine, and we both knew it.

---

The third time, nobody was drunk. I almost forget the context—I think he called me on some pathetic pretense having to do with his broken dishwasher—but I remember that nobody was drunk. That made it real. Before then, we could just shrug and laugh uncomfortably and blame the booze. But after the third time, it wasn't the booze. It was us.

Whatever "us" was …

A month or so after the third time, as we were lying quietly in bed, sweaty and spent and sleepy, he rolled over and gently touched my arm. I'd almost fallen asleep and found myself irritated with him for bothering me. A bit more brusquely than strictly necessary, I asked him what he wanted.

"I want to know what we're doing. What we are."

I rolled over to face him, and even in the dark he must have been able to see my raised eyebrow, because he quickly clarified, "I meant, I want to know what our status is."

"Our status?" I sighed, feeling sorry for me and for him. Probably in that order. "We don't _have_ a status."

There was such a long pause after that I thought he'd fallen asleep. Just as I was drifting off again, though, I heard him softly whisper, "Oh."

---

Karma's a bitch.

This morning, the bed is cold and seems ridiculously empty without him in it. I listen to water noisily move through the pipes of my upstairs neighbors. I notice that my eyes sting a little but angrily push away the thought that I might cry. Oh, hell no. I am fucking Angelica Pickles, and I have not cried since I was seven years old. I am sure not going to cry now. Especially not over some guy that isn't even my boyfriend, isn't even someone I'm dating.

But he's not just "some guy," of course. He's a guy that I've known since we both wore diapers. He's a guy that I've played with, laughed with, tricked, tortured, and teased. He's a guy who knows firsthand what I look like in pigtails. He's my cousin's best friend and practically a Pickles family member himself.

And he's my friend. Or, at least, he _was_. Who knows if we'll ever be able to be "just friends" now. Dammit.

---

Ever so softly he kissed my neck, his lips only a feather's graze against my skin. Normally this would have driven me crazy, but that night, I sighed and pulled away.

Frowning, he rolled over on his side and studied me, his eyes worried. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked very quietly.

"No, no, no," I said and ran my hand down his face. Tiredly I smiled at him. "I'm just not in the mood tonight, I guess. Sorry. Maybe you'd better go home."

He nodded and reached over towards my nightstand. For a long moment his hand hovered over his glasses, then he pulled it back. Without looking at me, he said, "Angelica? If it's okay with you, I'd … I'd like to stay."

I should have kicked him out anyways. But I didn't.

"Sure. I mean, of course you can stay. It's pretty late, after all. What kind of cold-hearted bitch do you think I am?" Just as he turned around to face me again, I clamped my hand over his mouth. "Rhetorical question! Do yourself a favor and don't answer that."

When I took away my hand, he only smiled.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at my ugly ceiling. Then I felt his hand on my upper arm, slowly moving up and down, massaging gently. Happily I groaned. "My muscles are really tense today," I explained.

"Your muscles are _always_ tense."

He reached under my shoulder and gave me a gentle nudge. Obligingly I turned onto my stomach, and he kneaded my neck with both hands. To get better leverage, he moved so that he was straddling me, and for a moment I felt panic course through me as I realized how vulnerable a position I was in. Then I paused, reminded myself just who I was with, and concentrated on the massage. Finally I felt my shoulders unbunch as I began relaxing a bit.

He made an approving noise in the back of his throat. If his hands didn't feel so damn good, I might have thrown him off or at least growled at his smugness. But instead I merely murmured, "It's true that I'm always tense, but today was particularly bad."

He moved down to my shoulders, and I groaned again. "How come?"

"I didn't get the promotion."

His hands stopped. "What?"

I frowned with displeasure and rolled back onto my other side. Glaring up at him, still straddling me, I snapped, "You heard me. I didn't get the promotion."

"But that's crazy!" He flopped down on the bed beside me.

"You're telling me."

"No one deserved that promotion more than you." He shook his head, sounding genuinely appalled, and I decided I would forgive him for cutting his backrub short. "God, Angie. I'm so sorry."

I shrugged. But even as I shrugged, I felt my anger and frustration surge. I really had deserved that promotion. I'd sacrificed so much: years in grad school, years interning, years as an associate, years without anything even resembling a personal life. I'd worked seventy hour weeks as long as I could remember. And it's not that I regretted my choices. No, not that. It's just that I'd made those choices for reasons, and one of those reasons was to get this promotion.

His arms wrapped around me, and I almost pulled back. But I didn't, perhaps because I was still feeling charitably towards him for giving me my brief massage. Then I felt his warm breath on my skin as he dropped a light kiss on my forehead.

Oddly, that's when I broke. My frustration flooded over, hot tears trickling down my face. I felt him brush them away with his thumbs, and I made a half-assed attempt at swatting his hands away. But he ignored my swatting and kept on holding me as I cried. Finally I just let him hold me. After all, in his arms I felt safe. I hadn't felt as safe since—since ever, actually.

I shouldn't have let him see me cry. But I did.

---

Okay, so I lied about not having cried since I was seven. I lie about a lot of things.

---  
Author's Notes: Thanks for reading and for reviewing! So glad you're apparently enjoying this little story. Especially because I love Angelica's complexities, and I love writing for her. I'd hate to do her wrong.

Also, for those who may not have first- or second-hand knowledge of alcohol ... intoxication does indeed result in feeling very warm (wearing your "liquid jacket") and, in some cases, making sexual decisions you may otherwise not have. In sum--drink responsibly! Use protection! Look both ways before crossing the street!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

My head is pounding now. A steady throb in my temples. I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as possible to block out any and all stray light. Reaching out, I grab the pillow that he left behind and use it to cover my head. It smells like him. Like his shampoo, anyways. The pillow blocks out a little more light, but not much.

God, I hate hangovers.

Last night I drank too much. I always drink too much. At first I told myself I did it to keep up with the good old boys from work, who didn't think a woman could hack it in business. Work hard, play hard, drink hard. Then I told myself that I drank because I _deserved_ to drink, to unwind after a hard day's work. Then, after I'd stopped believing that particular lie, I told myself that I drank because I wanted to stop feeling.

The truth is, I don't know why I drink. Sometimes, usually during the holidays, Dil will quietly ask if I've gone to AA yet. I always laugh at him when he asks and then follow up with a large gulp of whatever I'm drinking at the moment. He always smiles sadly and nods, like he understands something I don't.

I hate my cousin Dil almost as much as I hate hangovers.

---

"You only call me when you're drunk."

His words were very soft, very calm. But I could hear the pain in his voice, and I flinched. "That isn't true," I said, not nearly as softly or as calmly.

He sat up in bed, and all I could clearly were his jutting shoulder blades, ghostly pale under the moonlight. He bent over and started fiddling with something on the floor, but I couldn't see what.

I bit my lip, feeling torn. I was pissed off at him for accusing me of something like that and then turning his back to me. And I was pissed that he was right. Finally, after watching his back for a few more moment, my irritation got the better of me, and I asked what he was doing.

"I'm getting my clothes." He sighed and pulled a shirt over his head. "I'm leaving."

I glared daggers at the back of his head. "Excuse me—you're what? Just who the hell do you think you are?"

"I am _tired_, Angelica. That's what I am," he replied, turning around to glower at me. The whites of his eyes shone in the near-black room. If I could have seen his irises, I knew that they would be that strange, overly bright green that always indicates he's angry.

"So am I," I bluffed, "so why don't you just go?"

He sighed again but didn't say anything else. I listened as he fumbled for his shoes in the dark. When he stood up, I refused to look at him, but I heard his steps creak along the old wooden floors of my apartment. Then I heard the front door open.

"Wait!"

I don't think I'd ever moved that fast before in my entire life. In a flash I was out the room, across the apartment, grabbing onto his elbow just as he was about to step into the hall. Startled, he stumbled backwards, and I took advantage of the opportunity. Slamming the door shut, I positioned myself in front of it, barring any possible exit.

Even in the dim lighting, I could see him grab at his chest as he tried to control his heavy breathing. "Jesus, Angie! You scared me half to death!"

Which wouldn't be too hard to do, actually. Instead of voicing this thought aloud, though, I blurted out, "Don't go."

He ran a hand through his thick shaggy hair. "Why not?" he challenged.

Good question. I thought it over, trying to figure out what would be the best thing to say—what would get him to stay but allow me to keep my pride intact. I decided that, if he chose to be stubborn and force my hand, I would suck it up and say that I was sorry.

"Because I want you to stay," I quietly told him.

He sighed. Then he nodded. "Let's go back to bed and get some sleep."

As we headed back to my bedroom, I reached over and took his hand. His long slender fingers entwined with mine, and he gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. An "I forgive you" squeeze. Smiling under cover of night, I congratulated myself on skillfully avoiding the necessity of apologizing to him.

---

That hadn't been our first fight, and it certainly hadn't been our last. But this morning, as I groan with the pain of my headache, cursing my hangover, that particular fight filters to the forefront of my mind. He hadn't been entirely on the money, of course, but he'd been mostly right. I usually am drunk when I call him. I feel my throat tighten and for a second I'm afraid that I might vomit. But then I realize the feeling isn't nausea, it's shame.

He deserves better than that. He really does. Well—now that he's shown the good judgment to finally leave me, maybe he'll have the judgment to get involved with someone who will treat him like the great guy he is. Maybe. I can only hope.

As the pain in my temple keeps chipping away at what shreds of sanity I have left, I throw all the pillows on the floor. The pillows aren't helping. Keeping my eyes shut isn't helping. Nothing is helping. Half-heartedly I consider getting up to go rummage for some aspirin in the bathroom, but I quickly reject this idea. Right now, the thought of going all the way across the apartment to the bathroom has all the appeal of trekking across the Sahara without a canteen or camel.

Then, while I'm still writhing in misery, I hear it. A soft squeak, as someone gets into bed beside me. I feel the mattress depress a little from the additional weight, and my throat constricts again, but for a very different reason. I don't open my eyes. I don't dare … not until he gently slips an arm around my waist.

When I do open my eyes, I see my ugly gray ceiling. I glance downward and, sure enough, across my stomach lays his arm—lean, pale, dusted with seemingly a million freckles. For a seeming eternity I stare at his arm, but it never disappears. His arm is real. He's really here.

"I'm sorry." It's his voice, too. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

I roll over to face him. The light that is filtering through my blinds bathes his face in a warm glow. His hair is a tangled, ratty disaster. He's squinting a little because he hasn't put on his glasses yet. His nose is just a little too pink—he must have gone and gotten sunburned at some point this past weekend. Staring at him, I realize that I have never seen him look more beautiful than he does right now and right here.

He tilts his head, looking concerned. "Angelica? You okay?"

Slowly I smile. "Yeah. Just a bit of a hangover."

"Want me to go get you some water or something?"

"No," is all I say. I turn around and snuggle against him, my back fitting perfectly against his cozy chest.

We lay together in companionable silence for a long time. My head still hurts, but I don't give a damn. I send up a promise to God—the God that Susie Carmichael has never lost faith in through all these years—that I will stop drinking. While musing on this, I begin lightly stroking the arm that's still around my waist. He sighs happily.

He's here, he's real, and I don't want this moment to end. But after briefly wetting my lips, I venture, "You were gone when I woke up."

He nods. "I thought you were still asleep."

"Well, think again."

"I wanted to surprise you with breakfast," he murmurs into my hair. "Though given your current state, I don't imagine you'll probably want any."

Silently I apologize to him, for thinking he would just up and leave me. Out loud I ask, "Was that _you_ making coffee?" I try to sound annoyed but only manage "barely restrained hysteria."

"Um … uh … maybe?" He sounds nervous. More nervous than usual, that is. "If I say that I used the last of your premium coffee beans, exactly how mad would that make you?"

Taking hold of his arm, I pull him closer. I don't trust myself to speak. Not yet. He's so close that I can feel his heart hammering away in his chest.

"Chuckie," I say, finally, softly.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe. I desperately want to turn around so that I can see his face, but irrationally I'm afraid that if I move, I'll spook him. As I'm thinking all this, he leans forward, his lips brushing past my ear.

"Angelica," he whispers. His breath tickles against my face.

My heart is beating as quickly as his now. "Yes?

"I love you too." He kisses my cheek. "I always have."

---

I _will_ stop drinking. So help me God, and so help me Susie Carmichael, I will. For him. And, even more importantly, for me. After all, if he loves me, maybe it's time I start loving me too.

It'll mean that Dil will get cocky, of course. I'm sure that the little creep will try to take all the credit. But that's a small price to pay, isn't it? Besides, I'll get my revenge—when I announce over Thanksgiving dinner that I'm engaged and they all ask who the lucky guy is. I do hope Lil is nearby, so that she can catch her fainting husband.

Heh.

---  
Author's Notes: Thanks for coming on this ride with me! Glad you've enjoyed the first two chapters, and I hope you find this a suitable conclusion. It's a little sappy, but heck, if you can't be sappy in a romance, where can you?

By the way, the absence of Chuckie's name in the previous two chapters wasn't meant to "fool" anyone because, as y'all know, it was perfectly plain who Angelica's been talking about this whole time. Referring to Chuck as "he" and "him" was just a stylistic thing I was experimenting with ... dunno if it's had the effect I was going for, but hopefully. Til next time!


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